


Common Ground

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baked Goods, Basically a doggie meet-cute, But they're living the good life now, Chance Meetings, Christmas Season, Despite what Bones thinks, F/F, Gonna be a happy ending, M/M, Mycroft is a Softie, Other, Possible TW for dogs rescued from abusive situations, Retirement!lock, greg has a crush, rescue dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-09-17 16:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16978335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Since resigning from his former position of power, life has felt empty for Mycroft. Deciding to adopt a cat, he instead finds himself the new owner of an extremely skittish greyhound. While in a pet boutique purchasing supplies for his new canine companion, he runs into an old acquaintance he'd always wanted to know better.Greg has been enjoying life since he quit the force, but nothing has been as exciting as running into his old crush Mycroft Holmes again. And now he's gone and invited him to share coffee.





	1. Skin & Bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [siriusblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/gifts), [heyhey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyhey/gifts).



> Originally posted as Parts 1 & 2 on Tumblr (come find me, @savvyblunders), they are now chapter one. Not sure exactly how long this will be, but stay tuned for updates.

How had this happened? Mycroft wondered, looking down at the thin dog walking timidly at his side. He’d gone to the RSPCA looking for a cat to adopt. Having found his home practically echoing with emptiness once he resigned from the Ministry, it had finally dawned on him that he could at last have the cat he’d been denied in his childhood due to Father’s allergies.

Now he had plenty of time on his hands to care for a cat and not feel guilty for always leaving it alone. So, a cat he had gone seeking. The idea of having a companion for the lonely nights was quite enticing, and Mycroft had looked forward to his mission. Maybe he’d even adopt an older cat, one that had been at the shelter longer than the others, overlooked and unwanted.

After all, he could empathize with the feeling of being unwanted, and wasn’t that a good place to start a bond? Common ground?

And yet somehow he’d seen this pitiful, shivering greyhound sitting shyly in the far corner of his kennel and found himself pointing. “That one.” Even though he hadn’t intended on getting a noisy, messy dog at all.

Not that this particular specimen was by any stretch of the imagination  _noisy_. The dog–a former racer–it was explained, had been maltreated by its handler, and was extremely skittish around people.  _At least_ , Mycroft reflected, wondering if he had done the right thing,  _he needn’t worry about that with me._

A calm, quiet environment, lots of patience and a gentle demeanor were needed. Not that he considered himself gentle–nor would anyone else–but he was no brute. And he could provide plenty of quiet, and peaceful surroundings. The most excitement he experienced was when an Amazon package arrived, or his brother visited. Sherlock had mellowed a good deal over the years, but he was still capable of stirring the pot briskly. With dogs, however, he had always been gentle.

Bones was the (in his opinion rather cruel) name the shelter had given his new canine companion, and Mycroft was contemplating names as they walked. He couldn’t help but think the creature needed a name of dignity and grace to give him confidence and project the right sort of image. “Bones” was rather derogatory. As someone who had struggled all his life with his self-image, and been the butt of cruel laughter and hurtful name calling, Mycroft was sensitive to this fact.

“Claudius, perhaps,” he said now. The dog glanced at him fearfully from the corner of his eyes and Mycroft reconsidered. “No? I thought it rather stately, but perhaps you’re right.”

It was thankfully only a bit further to the pet supply emporium he’d Googled. The wind was brisk off the Thames and fingers of cold air were sneaking in the neck of his coat. He’d surrendered his cashmere scarf to his new pet, as the poor, frightened thing was shivering rather violently. It might be due more to nerves, but he worried he was too thin to remain warm unaided.

Besides…Victor? looked rather dashing with a peacock blue scarf tied jauntily around his long neck.

“Victor?” Mycroft tried. The dog whined unhappily. Ah well, he would continue to think.

He’d attempted to load his furry friend into the rear seat of his private car, but the prospect had seemed to terrify him. Rather than further traumatize the poor fellow, Mycroft had opted to walk. Thankfully their destination was even now in sight.

Ducking gratefully into the warmth of the store, Mycroft had to stop and let…oh, Bones, damn it, until he had a suitable name…balk fearfully. Tugging gently at the lead the shelter had provided, Mycroft tried to coax him farther inside. To no avail did he reason with his dog that it was a safe space and he was welcome here.

A dog barked from the back of the store (a Jack Russell from the shrill, excitable sound of it) and Bones squatted and peed in fear.

“Oh dear,” Mycroft despaired, face burning at his animal’s lack of control.

“It’s alright, sir,” a middle aged employee assured him, speaking in a low, cheerful voice. She approached slowly, a roll of paper in one had, a spray bottle in the other. Stopping a short distance away, she crouched and held out a hand for Bones to sniff.“ Happens all the time,” she said soothingly. “Would it be alright if I gave him a treat? Some dogs are soothed by food.”

 _Some people too_ , Mycroft thought, wistfully picturing a generous slice of chocolate gateau and a steaming cup of coffee. If he survived this afternoon he was going to place an UberEats order and have a reward delivered to the new flat he’d relocated to in the spring.

Bones wouldn’t take the offered biscuit from her hand, so, “Hi, my name is Jill!” placed it on the floor within his reach and cleaned up the mess. Bones jumped nervously when she sprayed the bottle, but since no one attacked, he stretched out a tentative nose to sniff at the treat.

“Just get him from a shelter?” Jill asked with sympathy, obviously recognizing the temporary red lead-collar combo, and the clear wariness between owner and pet. No doubt his complete ineptitude was visible to all.

“Yes,” Mycroft admitted, “and I’m doubting the wisdom of my decision…I’ve never owned a dog before. And he’s had a troubled past.”

“A dog is a big commitment,” Jill agreed tossing the used paper in a nearby bin and cleaning her hands with a sanitizing foam from the dispenser mounted on the wall above it. “And overcoming past trauma can be a challenge. But sometimes all that’s needed is time and a loving heart.”

 _I’m afraid you’ve hit upon the worst owner in London_ , Mycroft told Bones silently. _I wasn’t called the Iceman for nothing._ He hadn’t much practice using his heart. The poor dog might be doomed.

Jill proved to be very helpful, directing him towards several excellent books on dog training which the store stocked, and suggesting some practical items to make Bones’ adjustment into his household easier.

Maneuovering a trolley and a skittish dog on a lead proved to be challenging, but they managed sufficiently. Mycroft, a bit sweaty from anxiety, removed his coat and draped it over the trolley. He was murmuring nonsense at Bones, who had seated himself gingerly at Mycroft’s side, and Googling two high-end shampoos when he realized he had heard his name.

Before he could turn, his brain registered the familiar voice, and he went hot and cold in turns.  _Gregory_.

“God, it  _is_  you. Mycroft Holmes, Christ, what’s it been, five years?” Improbably, Greg Lestrade sounded delighted to run into him. Manners, most likely. No one was ever glad to see him.

“Ah, Inspector,” Mycroft said smoothly, recovering his aplomb, and turning to face the man. “How very unexpected to run into you here. But how very nice to see you again.” As he had suspected, time had not diminished the man’s beauty. If anything it had simply gilded him further with a radiant, rugged masculine appeal. “I was unaware you had a dog,” he said, upon spying the fat, panting bulldog sprawled on his round hindquarters at Greg’s trainer-clad feet.

“Could say the same to you,” Greg rejoined, gracing him with a bright grin. “Didn’t even know you were still in London.”

 

                                                                                                                ******

 

Jesus, his crush,  _here_ , three feet away and smelling like temptation on two legs. Greg thanked his lucky stars he was wearing the dark-wash jeans that made his arse look ten years younger and the soft burgandy jumper that hid what he sometimes feared was becoming a gut. Well, anyway a softening of his former abs.

“I spend some time abroad, or in the country at a colleague’s country house,” Mycroft was saying, in that posh, crisp voice that had always sent shivers down his spine. “But I’m afraid London is home for me, for better or worse.”

“Yeah, know what ya mean,” Greg agreed. “I tried moving after I retired, but it was too bloody quiet and there wasn’t much to do but go to the pub or watch telly. I got bored.” He shrugged, wondering if he was babbling, “So I moved back a few years ago. Rent a basement bed-sit from a friend of my mum’s cousin–nothing fancy, but it’s home, and the rent’s cheap enough to allow me to live here.”

“London can be frightfully expensive,” Mycroft agreed, although Greg knew the Holmes family had plenty of money. “I myself moved into a much smaller flat. No need to be so close to the center of power any longer.”

“So you really retired? Gotta admit I couldn’t picture it when Sherlock mentioned it.” Greg grinned at him, admiring the loose wave of his hair. Had it always been this perilously close to a curl at his forehead or was he styling it differently now? “Thought for sure the government would fall.”

“They do quite well enough in that regard without any assistance from me,” Mycroft said rather gloomily, and both men grimaced at the general cock-up which had been the past several years. “And now that you’re back in London, how do you pass your leisure time, Inspector?”

“Seems a bit silly for you to call me that now,” Greg said. As much as he’d always wanted bloody Sherlock to get his name right, he’d much have preferred to hear it on Mycroft’s lips. Never had though.

“Ah yes…of course.” Mycroft paused, “Greg.”

 _Christ._  “That’s better. Well, I still meet John for the odd pint and a friendly argument over the merits of football versus rugby. And I even do a bit of playing myself, ‘cept when the weather plays tricks with my knee.” Absently he rubbed at his left knee, which had suffered a bad break when he was still on the force. It had been a big part of the reason he retired early.

“Take Winston here on walks–throw the old ball and play fetch, don’t we fella?” he asked his dog with bright enthusiasm, and was rewarded by an eager wagging of the stump of Winston’s docked tail. Thankfully the knobhead who’d owned Winston before he was removed from his home had never gotten around to cutting his ears. Greg squatted down and rubbed gently at the mottled brown and white ears. Winston stopped panting noisily and grunted happily. Lovingly he licked Greg’s hand.

“Got really lonely, being by myself,” Greg confessed, looking up at Mycroft. “Me and this bugger found one another, didn’t we buddy?” He leaned in and let Winston lick his chin, fondling his broad face with soft hands, “Saved each other.”

“I…know what you mean,” Mycroft said slowly, gazing down at them. “Even in my much smaller flat I find myself wandering like a ghost. It can be terribly…terribly lonely, sometimes.”

Knowing he had been gifted with a confidence and that it was something the other man wasn’t normally inclined to share, Greg was gentle. “Can, can’t it?” He sighed, sounding sadder than he had thought he was capable of. “Never thought I’d end up alone. Figured I’d have a wife, kids…maybe grandkids someday.” Feeling suddenly embarrassed, he switched his eyes to the dog shaking behind Mycroft’s legs, a look of anxious worry on its poor, narrow face.

“You never remarried after your divorce?” Mycroft asked, as if he didn’t know everything about everyone. Although now that he was no longer at Whitehall, maybe he didn’t. Besides, unlike his younger brother, he’d never been particularly prone to shoving his observations down your throat. Well, not unless it suited his purposes.

Greg held his hand out toward the greyhound–who was rather devastatingly clad in a very expensive looking scarf, “Hey fella…” He glanced up at Mycroft, “Naw, none of my dates ever seemed to go anywhere, and the one or two relationships I had didn’t survive the demands of my job.”

“I’m afraid he’s rather timid,” Mycroft apologized, glancing down where his dog had plastered himself to his legs. “Although you had the unintended consequence of making me appear the better option, it seems. This is the closest he’s come to me willingly in the last two hours.”

“Glad I could help,” Greg laughed, going to rise. His bad knee protested and he flung out a hand toward the shelves, desperate not to end up sprawled awkwardly at Mycroft’s well-shod feet.

Mycroft swiftly grasped his arm and steadied him. Mycroft’s dog whimpered and cowered at the end of his leash. Winston sat stoically, drooling onto the floor. “Let me,” Mycroft murmured, and changed his grip, offering both hands to Greg, who took them gratefully, if with a red face. Once on his feet he mourned the loss of that brief touch, those firm, warm palms against his own. It had been fleeting, like all their past encounters, and left him wanting more. He was positive this was the first time they had ever touched and he kicked himself that it has been so swift and for such a clumsy, embarrassing reason. He probably looked like the old man he was.

“You, uh…you busy this afternoon?” He asked before he could lose his courage. “It’s…well, hey,”  _Oh the hell with it, what have I go to lose?_  “it’s your birthday today, isn’t it?”

Mycroft looked astounded, and Greg kicked himself for admitting that he knew  _and remembered_ the birthdate of a man who at best could really be described as an acquaintance. A passing acquaintance really; they’d probably met all of a half dozen times.

“You–I, um, remember Sherlock saying once,” Greg hurried to say, “Ten days before Christmas, right?” He shifted on his feet, hoping his face wasn’t red, wasn’t betraying him. “He said you always complained as a boy how unfair it was that your birthday was so close to Christmas…everyone always gave you one gift for both.”

Mycroft sighed, “I’m not sure why Sherlock burdened you with such mundane details of my youth, but yes, it is indeed my birthday.”

“Would you, ah, like to maybe join me for some coffee?” Greg offered hopefully, not wanting to let him go just yet, “I know a great bakery and cafe nearby, I can buy you a slice of cake.”

“The dogs?"Mycroft didn’t  _seem_  like he was trying to offer a desperate excuse to get out of it.

"They have a patio out back, put plastic up this time of year, and bring heaters in. It’s pretty toasty, actually.” Greg held his breath. The man probably was trying to think up a polite way to say no. A sexy, powerful man like Mycroft Holmes had better ways to spend his birthday than making polite conversation with an old associate of his wayward brother.

Mycroft straightened, looking resolved, and Greg’s heart sank, only to soar again when he heard the other man agreeing.

 

 


	2. Tea & Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dogs in tow, Mycroft and Greg settle in at an upscale bakery and cafe for a small celebration of Mycroft's birthday. While there they run into an old acquaintance of Greg's, causing him some embarrassment and Mycroft some insight.

"My car is nearby," Mycroft offered, as they exited the dog boutique into the face of a sharp wind. Greg zipped up his black puffy jacket to his chin and looped a colourful scarf around his neck, snuggling his faintly bristly chin into it's warmth. The wind played havoc with his silvery hair, and Mycroft bit his lip sharply, fingers tingling with the need to strip off his leather gloves and bury themselves in Greg's hair, pull him in for a kiss, feel the warmth of his lips against his own.

They started off, Winston trotting happily ahead, Bones skittering along behind them, darting from each perceived threat. Walking briskly, they reached the car in minutes, and Mycroft unlocked the doors, reaching for the back door, intending on having another go at loading Bones in. It was no more successful than his first try. Greg tried coaxing him, Mycroft tried reasoning with him. Greg suggested Mycroft go around to the other side, reach through the door and call him, while Greg boosted him in. Yelping pitifully, Bones struggled to get away, his brand-new leather halter and lead thwarting him. They soothed and begged and ordered (gently but firmly), they offered treats, all to no avail.

"Maybe he'll do it if he sees Winston going ahead of him," Greg mused. He patted the seat, "Up, Winston!" With a complete lack of grace, but a heart full of willingness, Winston lumbered into the back foot-well, and from there onto the seat. "Get on the bus, Gus," Greg joked, ushering Bones in. With a startled look, the dog obeyed, and tucked himself in next to Winston, who nosed at his ear.

"No," Mycroft said, straightening and frowning across the bonnet at Greg. "Not Gus." He looked at Bones, "Your name is not Gus." The dog cocked his head and blinked, shivering. "It's not...dignified."

"Nothing wrong with Gus," Greg laughed, and laughed again when the greyhound's head swung around toward him at the sound of the name. "Is there, _Gus?_ " The dog formerly known as Bones barked once, and laid down, cradling his narrow head on long legs. Greg closed the rear door and opened the passenger side, getting into the front. "Well," he said, grinning at Mycroft, who was looking disgruntled, "Looks like your dog has a name."

"Caesar Augustus," he thought he hear him mutter, but wasn't sure over the sound of the engine turning over. Traffic was fairly heavy, but moving steadily, and they road in comfortable silence, broken only by the soft strains of classical music on the radio, and Greg's occasional instructions on where to turn. Parking was a bit of a hassle, but there was no harm in walking; the dogs would certainly enjoy it.

There was a happy buzz inside the cafe when Greg ducked into put their names down, and he took the liberty of ordering two steaming glasses of _glogg_ and carried them back to where Mycroft waited with the dogs. "They'll have us seated in a jiff," he said, taking Winston's lead and handing Mycroft one of the drinks. "They're turning on the heaters and cleaning a table for us. Apparently it's too cold for anyone to want to sit outside." He bit his lip, "Hope you don't mind that we'll be sitting out there."

"Heavens no," Mycroft said, sipping at his wine, at first cautiously and then with pleasure. "Mm, this is quite good."

"Goes down a treat on a cold day," Greg said, savouring his own drink. "This should keep us toasty until they've got things ready for us."

It was only a matter of minutes, but they were indeed warm and high-spirited when they were shown to their table by the hostess. Greg saw Mycroft appraising the patio, which was, as promised, sheeted in heavy, translucent plastic, and warmed by tall gas heaters. The stone floors were softened by all-weather rugs, and warm gas lights flickered over the intimate tables, grouped amongst potted palms. They were the only people seated there, and the hostess left them after handing them menus with the daily specials and promising a server would be with them shortly.

"The tomato bisque is great," Greg enthused, "and so's the mini beef Wellingtons." He hummed, "I'm pretty hungry, think I might get more than just cake. What about you?"

Mycroft hesitated, "I haven't had lunch yet, actually. Perhaps a small meal..." he trailed off, then looked at Greg, "and then, tea and cake?"

Greg grinned happily, "That'd be perfect!" For a moment they smiled at one another, eyes meeting, a moment swelling between them and then--

"Hi, I'm Harry, I'll be your waiter today, gentlemen," a young man said, striding up to their table, "I see you're looking at our specials--Greg? Hi!" The sprightly voice was soaked in delight.

Glancing up, Greg nearly flinched. "Eh...Harry. Hey. I um, didn't think you worked weekends here." Otherwise he never would have come, bringing Mycroft along with him. Normally the handsome thirty-something worked at the cafe during the weekly lunch shifts, and spent his weekends bar-tending for a catering firm, which was far more lucrative. "How are ya?"

Despite the fact that they hadn't spoken since their last hook-up, Harry only looked pleased to see him. "I'm great...how are you?" His voice dropped slightly, "Haven't seen you since that night at the club...you never really answered my texts about when we'd see one another again." Across the small, linen-draped table, Mycroft shifted.

"Good...good." Greg cleared his throat, "Uh, sorry about that, by the way." He glanced at Mycroft, who was looking politely at them, face inscrutable. "This is--I brought a friend of mine here for his birthday. Thought he deserved some of the Mississippi Mud, that is, if you're still carrying it."

Harry nodded, switching a professional smile in Mycroft's direction, "Greg's right to recommend it, it's really decadent and sinful." Although Harry wasn't overly camp, Greg nearly cringed, certain he was broadcasting his homosexuality and his connection to Greg loud and clear with the faintly dramatic emphasis he leant to _decadent_ and _sinful_. His experience with men was essentially non-existent, and for most of his life he'd never even thought of himself as bisexual; it was only with retirement and the on-set of loneliness that he'd begun to tentatively explore that side of himself, deciding that at sixty he could do as he damn well pleased for once. There was every chance that until now Mycroft never would have had a clue he was less than 100% heterosexual.

"I'll keep that in mind," Mycroft said coolly, handing Harry his menu. "For now I'll have the turkey club, no bacon, and an order of chips, extra crispy." He drained his glogg, "And please bring me a sparkling water."

Numbly, Greg ordered, wondering if now their easy camaraderie was going to vanish in the face of his inadvertent outing. Subtly, he nudged his foot under Winston's slumbering chin, seeking comfort. Harry's departure left them in an awkward silence he had no idea how to bridge. Greg swallowed the last of his mulled wine, throat tight. While he'd long admired Mycroft, and subsequently admitted to himself that he had what amounted to a crush on the man, there had never been any indication that the other man was homosexual. Aside from the perfect grooming and impeccable suits; but a vague air of dandyism wasn't a sexual preference, and so he'd stewed in wonder. Mycroft had always projected an air of being above most humans, much less deigning to notice their gender, or express an interest in one over the other.

"So," Mycroft finally said, as Greg's ears were beginning to ache with the silence, "I must admit I'm impressed by your confidence in going after a younger man. I myself have never felt that secure in my own charms to approach a man so much my junior."

                                                                                                                     ******

 

Reviewing his own words in his head, Mycroft could have kicked himself firmly in his own arse, had he been capable of such a contortion. As it was, he dug his neatly trimmed fingernails into his palms, wishing he hadn't sounded so prissy and judgmental. He wouldn't blame Greg if he threw his napkin on the table and left.

Going a bit red around the ears, Greg blurted out, "No, I mean--that is, _he_ approached _me_." Instantly he appeared mortified, as if he hadn't intended on saying that, and his embarrassment was clear. Mycroft however, hadn't taken it as arrogance or bragging. "Not that I'm--I-I mean, not saying people throw themselves at me. Normally I don't even do pick ups, but it had been so long--and-and he made me feel--"

"And why shouldn't you feel that way?" Mycroft asked softly, digging his fingers in more tightly to his stinging flesh, "It must be wonderful to be pursued by a young, attractive man." Or indeed, any man, he thought privately. His own sexual history was rather sparse, and "pursuit" was not a word that had ever been applicable to him. "And you're certainly handsome enough to attract anyone."

Simultaneously they burned with hot blushes, and quickly avoided one another's eyes. Thankfully, Mycroft spied Harry returning with a tray upon which stood a bottle of San Pellegrino, two glasses, and two shots of espresso, lemon peel curled artfully across the rim of the small cups. "I brought birthday espresso!" He announced cheerfully, setting down the drinks, "On the house! It's cold, you two need to keep warm." Winking at them, he gave a cute little shiver, dark curls dancing.

"I'm quite comfortable, but thank you. Most kind," Mycroft managed, former barely disguised animosity withering in the face of such genuine goodwill. He was a curmudgeonly old grouch, and Greg was most assuredly not his to be possessive over. None of which meant he wasn't happy to see the young man departing.

"Thanks," Greg echoed, and he chanced a glance at Mycroft, eyes shy, "Happy birthday, Mycroft." He held out his cup, and Mycroft, throat going tight with some unrecognizable emotion, tapped it lightly with his own. 

"Thank you," he whispered, blinking. What on earth was wrong with him? Why was he feeling suddenly weepy? It _couldn't_ be the knowledge that the glorious Gregory Lestrade was actually interested in men, and not only that but involved with a young, good-looking and clearly charming man, as he'd _never_ been Mycroft's to begin with. Surely it wasn't that he was spending his birthday with someone else? That hadn't happened in more than twenty years and it had never, he always assured anyone who asked, bothered him in the slightest. _Perhaps its old age_ , he thought moodily, and sipped at his espresso, fighting off a sudden wave of depression.

"So," Greg said with obviously forced cheerfulness, perhaps sensing Mycroft's sudden distress, "Will you be seeing Sherlock tonight for a birthday celebration?"

Swallowing his coffee and his unhappiness, Mycroft straightened, putting on a pleasant expression, "Doubtful. We rub along much better these days, but I'm afraid we're never going to be particularly close." No matter how much he might wish for it. Particularly since he no longer had a relationship with his parents. Father had died five years before, and Mummy had never lost her coldness over the entire Eurus debacle. Mycroft had willfully buried the thorn of pain over her abandonment and gallantly sent her a gift each year for her birthday, and called at Christmas. She was never in, at least according to the retired nurse who acted as her companion and caregiver. Still, he persisted.

"Shame," Greg said without judgment, "I was an only child and it'd be nice to have family, now my parents are gone." His face was lonely, a look which Mycroft recognized in his soul. With sudden clarity he realized that Greg was just as lonely and lost as he himself was. He'd heard him admit as much earlier, in the pet store, and yet he hadn't really understood it. It seemed impossible that a man as dynamic, charming and handsome as Greg could be lonely. "Seems like a brother or sister should always be there, no matter what."

"I'm afraid I forfeited that right with my lies," Mycroft said, forcing lightness into his voice, prepared to change the subject. The mood had veered wildly into melancholia and he didn't want to taint his un-looked-for birthday tea with ugly memories.

"You're a good man," Greg said unexpectedly, sounding quite fierce, "I've always known that."

Face hot, Mycroft's hand shook as he picked up his espresso cup; a useless gesture as it was long empty. "I--you're very kind, Greg."

"I'm not kind," Greg blurted, "I _like_ you, Mycroft." His earnest brown eyes met Mycroft's, shining with honesty, "I always have."

 _Surely_ he didn't mean anything like what Mycroft's heart hoped he meant. It was impossible, and he'd always known that. He was a pragmatist. Aching with want, Mycroft reached out blindly for comfort, his hand landing on Gus's back. The dog flinched, but didn't shy away, and Mycroft gratefully buried his fingers in the silky, short hair at his neck, needing the connection. Never had he felt so alone. How could he possibly respond and not bare his soul utterly?


	3. Hurt & Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft draws courage from an unlikely source.

_ Dear Gregory, _

_ I like you. Do you like me? Circle YES or NO. _

_ Sincerely, Mycroft _

_ P.S. Please don’t circle NO. _

 

Mycroft nearly snorted at his own fancy. If he wasn’t prepared to speak up like a man, he could hardly resort to the infancy of school and pass Gregory a note asking if he “ _ like _ liked” him. With a last, desperate bid for comfort, he stroked Gus’ neck and looked up at Gregory, wondering if he had the courage to try for something he’d longed after for decades…

 

******

 

Gus sniffed delicately at the tall man’s shoes, which carried interesting smells deep in the tautly stitched leather. His questing nose happened across a minute crumb of bread on the rug, and he licked it up, long tongue lapping at his whiskers in case he’d missed any bits. Winston’s sorrowful eyes rested on him, and the other dog gave a soundless whine, dropping his drooping muzzle onto his paws.

 

_ Maybe they’ll feed us soon,  _ Winston sighed hopefully. His big brown eyes shone eagerly as he fixed them on Gus.  _ I like cake. Greg gives me cake. But not the chocolate kind. And only when I’ve been a good boy. I like belly rubs too! Greg gives good ones. Do you like belly rubs? _

 

The avalanche of information and eager inquiries was almost overwhelming to Gus, who was used to a more quiet life in his lonely kennel. Gus didn’t know what cake was, nor belly rubs.  _ Maybe _ they were okay, but maybe he wouldn’t like them. Better to avoid them in case they were scary. There were a  _ lot _ of bad things in the world.

 

 _But we don’t have cake very often_ , Winston continued. _I get treats after walkies._ _Greg takes me for_ lots _of walkies, sometimes too many. Walkies are okay but sometimes he jogs._ He sat up and scratched his ear vigorously, displeasure clear. _Jogging isn’t fun._

 

_ What’s jogging?  _ Gus asked fearfully. If this friendly, laid-back dog didn’t like it, it must be awful. Maybe his new human would make him jog. He whined softly, shivers creeping over his coat.

 

Winston stopped sniffing his rear and shuffled closer on fat, ungainly paws. Dropping down next to Gus he licked his ear soothingly,  _ Jogging is running with funny clothes _ .

 

Another tremor shook Gus. He knew running. Running was awful because if he wasn’t the fastest, the  _ best _ \--

 

“Heya boys,” a friendly voice said, as the other man ducked his head below the table and smiled at them, “you gettin’ along alright? Winston, you be a good boy, eh? Keep Gus company while we eat and we’ll have a treat for ya both.”

Winston barked excitedly, deeply frightening Gus, who quickly stood up, prepared to run. His new leather leash had been looped around the leg of the table, however, and he wasn’t able to effect an escape. The tall man put out a slow hand, voice low. Gus shivered, but stilled, unclear if he were in trouble or not. Slowly a gentle hand stroked his forehead, and he sat motionless, waiting for the blow to descend, the cruel twist of his sensitive ears. Instead, a gentle, hesitant fondle of his ears followed, and the tall man spoke in a low voice. “Don’t be alarmed, Augustus, Winston is merely an excitable fellow. We’re safe here.”

 

His eyes were sad and a little worried, and Gus felt a little kinship with him; he recognized a fellow sufferer. Plus the ear rubs were nice.  _ Huh. _ Maybe  _ belly _ rubs would be okay too.

 

The soft hand departed, and both men disappeared above the table again. Gus shivered, but eased himself down to the rug again, deciding not to fight the leash. He’d best stay where he was for now.

 

_ I hope Greg and your fella are going to be friends, _ Winston rumbled happily, eyes already closing,  _ I don’t normally get to come to the food places. _

 

_ ****** _

 

Mycroft felt strangely calmed by the steady stroke of his hand over Augustus’ sleek head, in attempting to soothe the clearly still-distressed dog, he had found comfort in return. A sudden desire to have discovered this years ago gripped him; how different his life would have been if he hadn’t closed himself off!

 

_ Maybe all I have to do is reach out for what I want _ , Mycroft thought, a feeling of lightness invading him. Hope, he discovered, sitting on a chilly patio, warmed by both his canine companion and the warmth of the gaze regarding him so sweetly and with just an edge of trepidation, was damned intoxicating. He needed to remove that trepidation immediately; it was unthinkable for Greg to be left any longer in suspense after exposing his feelings like that.

 

Decision made, filled with courage, heart expanding, Mycroft met Greg’s eyes, “I’ve liked you for many years as well, Greg.”  _ No! _ He thought in frustration at himself,  _ too restrained, too bland.  _ “Indeed, I’ve had what could only be termed a crush on you since early in our association...you’ve long been my ideal of the perfect man.” His face warmed, and he swallowed hard, wanting to backpedal, “A  _ crush _ , oh Lord, listen to me--I only meant--”

 

The resultant look of happiness took his breath, stole his cowardly words and threw them to the wind. Without thinking twice, Mycroft found his hand reaching out for Greg’s, and it was met with equal fervor. Beaming at one another, giddy as schoolboys, the two men leaned over the table towards one another, bathing the winter-grey patio in smiles. “I’ve a crush as well,” Greg confessed, looking a bit pink around the face, “Told myself I was mad to fancy you, but did me no good.” He squeezed Mycroft’s hand, “Can’t believe this is happening!”

 

“It seems incredible that I met you today,” Mycroft murmured, brushing his thumb over Greg’s knuckles, “much less that I should discover your feelings match my own. It-it’s incredible that you should care for me. You’re so-so wonderful, Greg and--” He bit his lip, “I’m afraid that now I’ve broken my silence I’m in danger of gushing.”

 

“Gush away,” Greg coaxed, soft grin tipping his lips, “‘m crazy about you, in case you hadn’t figured it out.” He ducked his head, laughing self-deprecatingly, “Can’t believe you didn’t know already.”

 

“Contrary to popular opinion--well, and to be fair I cultivated that public persona--I don’t actually know everything. I did from time to time wonder at the warmness of your regard, the readiness with which you dropped everything to attend my requests for meetings, the lack of impatience with my admittedly stilted conversational efforts...but I never imagined it was truly directed at me, in any--in any  _ personal _ way. I thought it was merely your own good nature and my wishful thinking.”

 

“Seems we were both wrong then,” Greg said, face still lit by a brilliant smile, “cuz I figured you had me read like a book and were ignoring it to be polite.”

 

So caught up in one another were they, that neither man noticed the approach of a cheerfully smiling Harry, laden with a tray of steaming food. “Here we are then, gents! Oh--” Harry, catching sight of their entwined hands and rapt expressions, faltered slightly, but then a professional smile smoothed over his look of dejection, and he apologized for interrupting. “Here we are,” he murmured, setting their plates in front of them with precision. “Is there anything else or shall I check back later?”

 

Meeting his eyes, Mycroft read the hastily buried disappointment, and a touch of hurt; unexpectedly he felt sympathy for the young man grip him and he hoped his eyes conveyed his understanding, without looking smug. “I think everything looks wonderful, Harry, thank you. Greg?”

 

“Huh?” Greg, who had been smiling absently at him, eyes fond, started, “Oh, erm, yeah, looks great.”

 

“I’ll leave you gentlemen to it,” Harry said gracefully, and with the tiniest of bows, eyes on Mycroft, he tucked the tray under his arm and departed, leaving them alone once more.

 

******

 

After lingering until they were chilled despite the heaters, Mycroft and Greg were both loathe to part. Deciding to get their blood flowing, they paid their check--Greg insisting on getting the tab, as it was Mycroft’s birthday--and after rewarding the dogs with crunchy biscuits, the two of them and the dogs set off at a brisk pace. There was a park nearby and although the day was cold, their happiness wrapped them in buffering warmth and the two men hardly noticed how cold they were until their ears were freezing and their noses running with the cold.

 

“My flat is nearby,” Mycroft offered, as they returned to the car, “I can, of course, drop you at yours, but if you’d like...I’d love to have you come with me and help me get Augustus settled, perhaps warm up with a little coffee and brandy…” he smiled at Greg, finding the action easier and easier. Indeed, he had scarcely ceased smiling since confessing his feelings. “I’ve a comfy couch, plenty of movies to stream, cocoa if you’d prefer.” Heart practically bounding in his ribs at the growing grin on Greg’s face, he suggested, “I’d love to cook you dinner…”

 

“Can’t think of anything I’d like more,” Greg said simply, covering Mycroft’s hand where it rested on the gear shift. In companionable silence, each caught up in their own happy reflections, the drive passed in peace, broken only by the soft sounds of classic music playing low on the radio, and the heavy breathing of the slumbering dogs. It might only be a night in with telly and coffee, but it was so much more...it was the start of more...it was the start of everything.

 

******

 

Several miles away, Anthea Jones-Trevalyn sat back in her luscious leather office chair and gave a small, smug smile at the screen of her laptop. On the screen, in clearest HD, was a CCTV feed, showing the entrance to Mr Holmes’ apartment building. He was leading a slim dog clad stylishly in a cashmere body suit up the stairs, arms laden with packages, following him, eyes on his bum, was the former Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade, equally laden. 

 

Even without sound it was clear from their body language that it was more than the act of an acquaintance helping out an overwhelmed shopper. After more than twenty years they had finally taken the plunge. It was about damn time. 

 

“Ma’am?” Anthea lifted her eyes to her newest PA, Simon, who stood to attention opposite her desk. He was an eager, attentive young man of professional aspect, but like the others he didn’t quite suit her needs. Really, Mr Holmes had been extraordinarily lucky in securing her employment. 

 

“Sorry, Simon,” Anthea said smoothly, closing her laptop, “I was thinking about the Gabrev situation...reschedule my meeting with the Ukrainians for next week, please.”

 

He was bewildered, “Next week? But ma’am...they say they’re in a hurry for this to be resolved.”

 

Anthea was cool, “Never give people what they want without a fight if you want them to respect you, Simon.” 

 

Once he was gone she pressed her lips together; really she should wait for this evening, but this news was too delicious to wait. Dialling the familiar number, she waited patiently until Dispatch answered. “Donna? Hello, it’s Anthea--how are you? I was happy to hear Colin passed his A levels--yes, it  _ is _ awfully cold outside. I’m currently dreaming of somewhere hot and tropical, personally. Could I…? Thank you, dear.” 

 

Nothing in her voice betrayed her impatience, and her smile was real when the familiar voice said, “Detective Chief Inspector Donovan here.”

 

“Sal,” Anthea greeted her partner with delighted warmth, “Darling, it's _finally_ happened…”


	4. Love & Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping a tidy bow on the gift of the future, we see Mycroft and Greg on their special day, and touch in with Anthea, Sally, John and Sherlock.

_Eighteen months later…_

  


The rooftop garden of Anthea and Sally’s apartment building had been reserved for the day, and it was a positive explosion of color, scent and life. They paid a premium for excellent service and top-scale amenities, and today even Sally had to admit that it was worth it. The catering staff circulated among the small number of guests, offering flutes of champagne, pints of lager or glasses of sparkling water and lime. Other staff members were busy setting up a table of nibbles which surrounded a small but stunning wedding cake.

 

The ceremony, Anthea reflected with satisfaction, had been intimate but extremely affecting. She gazed at her former employer, who had his arm twined through that of his brand-new husband’s, gold ring glinting in the sun. His face was suffused with happiness, but it was no brighter than the visage of his spouse, who was grinning ear to ear. Their wedding photos would be insufferably adorable. Much like the couple themselves.

 

There were fewer than twenty guests in attendance, neither man wanting a fuss, and yet the entire day had been no less the beautiful. Both men wore mid-grey trousers with a faint herringbone pattern, and silk-backed waistcoats in the same shade of grey, but with a French blue windowpane check. Greg wore a navy cotton-silk blend shirt, the sleeves crisply rolled to his elbow, showing off his still-powerful forearms; his top two buttons were undone, no tie in sight. Mycroft wore a shirt in a shade of dark periwinkle, sleeves correctly fastened at the wrist with mother-of-pearl cufflinks, which matched the tie pin nestled in his indigo silk tie. His husband couldn’t keep his eyes or his hands off him.

 

Arrayed at their feet were their dogs; elegant Gus in sartorial splendour with a French blue bowtie around his slim neck, a panting Winston wearing a top hat over his perpetual grin. The dogs had served as their best men, an act of whimsy Anthea wouldn’t have suspected him capable of just a few years before. It was more than that, as Mycroft had confessed; he was grateful to fate for leading him to Gus, and to Gus for leading him to Greg.

 

Last of the formal photos over with, the grooms and their canine companions moved amongst their guests, thanking everyone for coming. Anthea would have happily arranged for a temporary dance floor to be erected, hired a suitable band to play, had marquees erected, linen-draped tables arrayed on rented rugs, but the lovebirds were more than happy with simplicity. They had even gone so far as having a music file they’d created together piped in over the hidden speakers. As they walked hand in hand through the guests, the first post-ceremony song began. Anthea’s lips twitched as Rihanna began belting out _We Found Love_. Clearly the good inspector had been a most interesting influence on Mr Holmes.

  


*******

 

Winston was half asleep, head on his paws, belly satisfyingly full of all the treats--both stolen as well as bestowed--which he had been pleased to indulge in that day. Occasionally his fat paws would twitch and he’d moan, _cheese_ , longingly, before falling back into a stupour. He was stretched out on one of the outdoor sofas on the rooftop, worn out from a very exciting day. Gus, too, was tired, but he was unable to sleep with so many people about. As the last of the summer sun faded from the sky, slowly bleeding scarlet, indigo and navy across the canopy of the star-spangled heavens, Gus sat vigil on the sofa next to Winston, eyes tracking his Daddy around the space. He was always happiest near Daddy, but this was acceptable too.

 

Especially when Auntie Anthea and Auntie Sally came to join him; they knew the proper way to approach a dog without scaring him, and they were free with their affections. Anthea even allowed him to lounge on her pale pink silk organza covered lap, and stroked his ears just the way he liked. Gus finally allowed himself to relax, and settled down, although he kept a close eye on Mycroft and Greg as they moved around. Distracted by Auntie Sally returning with a plate of mini sausage rolls, vol-au-vents and tiny quiche, Gus took his eyes off of his Daddy, licking his lips.

 

“You spoiled creature,” Anthea laughed, snagging a bite from Sally’s plate. Relenting, she pulled a piece of rare roast beef free from the skewer it was impaled upon with green grapes and bleu cheese chunks, and fed it carefully to Gus, who lipped it delicately from her fingers with his customary politeness.

 

In the next moment his head jerked around, as if he were psychically aware that Mycroft had just disappeared through the door leading to the stairwell. Whining uneasily, he stood, paws planted on Anthea’s thighs, eyes scanning the rooftop. “Oof,” Anthea complained good-naturedly, trying to shift him, “Don’t stand on me, you great lump. No need to fret, your daddies have merely slipped away for a little privacy. You’ll be fine without them for a few minutes.” She cast a humourous look at Sally, “I see why Mycroft calls him Shadow, he’s hardly left Mycroft’s side all day.”

  


******

 

“This is nice,” John said happily, lager in one hand, plate of food in the other. “Food me, please.” Rolling his eyes affectionately, Sherlock selected a fat little sausage roll and shoved the whole thing in John’s mouth. Eyes promising retribution, John mumbled, “Dick,” and chewed vigorously. Once he had finished chewing, he swallowed noisily and washed it down with a drink. “You’re insufferable.”

 

“And yet you keep suffering me,” Sherlock pointed out cheerfully. He let his hand rest on John’s lower back, allowing his hand to idle down and give John’s still-pleasing bum a caress. “Funny, that.”

 

“Hard to believe this casual summer wedding was up to Mycroft’s tastes,” John mused, looking around. “Hard to believe _weddings_ are up to Mycroft’s tastes.”

 

“Mm,” Sherlock said absently. Behind John’s back he checked his phone.

 

“D’you wish we’d had this?”

 

Sherlock glanced at him, “Weddings...not really my thing.” His mask slipped and he gave John a crooked smile, “Thought you didn’t want one either?”

 

“I’m happy as we are,” John assured him, eyes shining with honesty, “Just wondered if maybe secretly both you Holmes boys were romantics at heart.”

 

“Had you wished for a wedding--no matter how ostentatious or simple--I would have complied,” Sherlock assured him. In a rare burst of softness, he spoke in a low voice, “I only want your happiness, John.”

 

John didn’t reply with words but his eyes spoke volumes, as did the kiss he pressed on Sherlock’s willing lips. “Where _are_ the happy couple anyway?” he asked, glancing about. “Hope they don’t think they’re slipping away unnoticed.” An evil grin lit his face, “Me and Donovan and a few of the lads decorated Mycroft’s car and I want to see the look on his face when he sees it.”

 

Sherlock heartily endorsed this gentle torment of his brother, “They’ve stepped into the stairwell.”

 

“Really?” John’s head swiveled.

 

“Don’t look,” Sherlock hissed, as if doing so would summon them, “I’m trying to pretend they aren’t out there doing unspeakable things to one another!”

 

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” John winced, trying to shake off the image of one of his good mates and his brother-in-law canoodling in the dark. “Now quit Tweeting behind my back and come dance with me.”

 

And putting away his phone, Sherlock happily complied.

 

******

 

“Christ, Myc, sweetheart,” Greg breathed, head tipping back against the stairwell wall, “your mouth oughta be registered as a lethal weapon.” He smiled giddily as his husband nibbled at his neck, drawing shivers from him. “We’re _married_.”

 

“I know,” Mycroft murmured, nuzzling his ear affectionately, “I was there.”

 

“Glad we didn’t wait,” Greg sighed, running restless, hungry hands up and down Mycroft’s back, savouring the silk of his waistcoat, the warm strength of his lean back. “Waited long enough for you, for this.”

 

Pulling back, Mycroft met his happy eyes with his own exuberant gaze, “No more waiting, darling.” A rueful smile twisted his lips, “Except for waiting ‘til a decent time to run home to our bed and christen it properly.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” Greg groaned, kissing his jaw, “If you start talking about our bed while touching me like that I’m not gonna be fit to be seen by our guests.”

 

“That would excuse us from remaining,” Mycroft joked. Pulling back a little he sighed and ran soothing hands down Greg’s chest. “Just another hour or so and we may leave without appearing as if we’re unable to resist tearing one another’s clothes off at the first opportunity.”

 

“Who are we trying to fool?” Greg asked, grinning at him, lips reddened, hair on end from Mycroft’s restless hands. “I’m gagging for it.”

 

“I deplore your choice of words, but I heartily endorse the sentiment.” They spent a few more minutes settling one another, Mycroft obligingly attempting to bring order to Greg’s hair. He was unaware that his own forelock was curling charmingly, and he had the heavy-lidded gaze of a man still reeling from passion. “Come now, let us mingle with our friends and then effect an escape after a decent interval.” He smiled, “I’m sure our son is missing us.”

 

Indeed when they opened the stairwell door and stepped onto the terrace, they were greeted with an excited bark, and a streak of grey fur bounding across the rooftop toward them. Quivering with delight, Gus stopped short of jumping on Mycroft, but instead dropped low and gave a very excited full-body wriggle. Laughing, his fathers knelt down and lavished pets on him. Meeting Greg’s smiling eyes, Mycroft’s heart gave a leap, and he leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss, “I love you, darling.”

 

“Love you, treacle,” Greg husked, eyes dark as the night, “God, I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”

 

“No,” Mycroft disagreed, leaning in for another kiss, “I assure you _I_ am the luckiest bastard in the world.”

 

_Anthea and Sally adopted a brother and two sisters from a Syrian refugee orphanage. They bought a home in the country and gave fabulous parties for their friends and lived on in sapphic splendor. Neither of them believed in marriage, but they did have a commitment ceremony on their ten year anniversary. Sally looked so good in her tailored suit that they were half an hour late to their own ceremony. Anthea actually took a month’s holiday and booked their family on a cruise down the Danube._

 

_John and Sherlock needed neither ceremonies nor marriage certificates; their bond had been forged in blood and fire years before. They lived on at Baker Street until Mrs Hudson fell and damaged her already fragile hip. Managing the stairs was out of the question. Once she was out of physiotherapy, the “boys” surprised her to tears by proposing the three of them retire to Sussex Downs, where Sherlock had a long-neglected cottage he’d inherited from his Uncle Rudy. John began adapting his blog for a book--with great interest from several publishers--and Sherlock had astounded everyone by delving into apiology, going so far as to set up hives of his own. Mrs Hudson still insists she isn’t their housekeeper._

 

_Greg and Mycroft continued to live in London--where else, Mycroft would ask friends--was one to live? They enjoyed travelling, but London was their home-base. They had frequent dinner parties with Sally and Anthea. Winston and Gus are their adored babies, but over time their menagerie expanded to include several cats, a ferret, and a rabbit--all adopted. They also sponsored several donkeys at a sanctuary on the Isle of Wight._

 

_Currently they are writing a pitch for Channel 4; it’s a comedic spy thriller, featuring an openly gay former cop who got tangled up in the shady world of international espionage. Even if it doesn’t get picked up, the two of them have had a delightful time writing it._

 

_They still argue fondly about which of them is the luckiest bastard._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and for the enthusiasm with which you received my humble story. I'm sad to say goodbye to Mycroft, Greg, Gus and Winston but it's time to bring this tale to an end and get to work on other WIP. Thanks for reading and commenting!
> 
>  
> 
> Find me on Tumblr & Twitter @savvyblunders


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